A Cold Day In Hell
by Alysun
Summary: Severus is having problems with Neville. And when he goes to Dumbledore to sort it out, he encounters more problems... PLEASE R&R if you want the second chapter :D


**A Cold Day In Hell.**

_Okay… why the title, first of all? Because that's about how likely this is happening in JKR's HP books. Not very, in other words. But it amused me greatly, so that's ok. _

_Hope you enjoy. Please, please review… Encourage me to write  the slashy chapter two!_

_The characters and the setting belong to JKR. Plot and potion are my own. _

~*~

Invariably, it's dank and cold in my classrooms today. Midwinter has arrived and the student's breath goes up in plumes of condensation into the freezing air as they huddle pathetically around their steaming cauldrons.  I, however, suspect I have become immune to the cold, since I do not shiver and complain with the ferocity of the students. Whether this is from long exposure to it, or, as some students mutter bitterly as they leave my rooms, because I am a cold-blooded reptile, I do not know nor care. 

Cold-blooded reptile? A stupid, thoughtless remark that never fails to receive some appreciative laughter. Any fool should know that if I was a cold blooded reptile, I would have long since gone into hibernation, waiting for the summer. Or maybe that's what they mean. That I hibernate down here in my freezing dungeons, waiting for summer - though not summer as in the season that is prior to autumn and follows spring, but a kind of proverbial summer; a ray of light, hope, even, into my hateful fix. 

But, no. The students here are not that intelligent, let alone philosophical enough of such thoughts. It was meant as an insult, and thus must be taken as one. 

Stupid children. 

Take Longbottom for example. He's here in my lesson now. Gods, how I hate this lesson. The cream of Slytherin and the most favoured of the Gryffindors in one room is the best recipe for a headache I've ever come across. 

And I know quite a few. 

Mr. Malfoy and his friends spending an amusing half hour making the life of the Gryffindors, such as the esteemed Mr. Potter and cronies, hell. 

I should stop him, really. But then, what good would it do? Only harm Malfoy's delicate self esteem and make Potter even more complacent. Besides, it adds a little amusement into another cold twenty-four hours. 

Where was I? Ah, yes. Longbottom. _Longbottom. Longbottom, with his dubious name and his big, round face, his stupidity is unrivalled, even among the first year Hufflepuffs. Relatively speaking, of course. _

But even then, thirteen years old and incapable of doing a simple shrinking potion?  It's ridiculous! Especially as his parents possessed some intelligence, marginal though it was. 

"Professor?" 

Interruption in my train of thought never goes down well. As I recognise the voice as Malfoy's I bury a scowl, save it for later. It would do me no good to get on the wrong side of this boy, him and a selection of other Slytherins. Is it any wonder I favour them? 

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" 

"I think Longbottom is in trouble again, Professor," he says triumphantly, a smirk to rival his father's plastered on his pale, narrow face. 

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

Malfoy goes back to his potion, smirk still in place, with half an eye on me to see what I do. I let my eye rove over the bent heads of the students until I see the small, ungainly figure of Longbottom, backing away from his potion, while his partner flicks frantically through his book, trying to find a way to fix the damage. Knowing Longbottom, there won't be anyway to fix that potion in any school textbook outside the Restricted Section. He managed to make Veriox once, a deadly poison with other, more disturbing properties. For example, one side effect is life. It kills and then revives, an endless, pain-filled cycle until the body decays. A most disturbing potion. Fortuitously, it is nigh impossibly to brew, even by someone as accomplished in Potions as I am. I should know. I've had to brew before now. Longbottom is a boy who makes stupidity an art form. True, not all his blunders are irreversible, and not all of them make an entirely different potion; truth be known, he has only brewed three actual potions without meaning to, to date, but it still a worrying habit. An art form, I tell you. 

I leave my desk and work my way down through the rows of frantic pupils, most of them wondering whether their potion should be this colour, or that consistency, or maybe that there should be more in the cauldron, perhaps? I reach Longbottom as his irate partner snaps at him, "What have you done _this time, Neville? What did you __add?"_

"I didn't," he wails. He hasn't seen me yet, amazingly. Blind as well as thick. Quite an achievement. 

"Let me see, Finnigan," I drawl, boredom seeping through my words like treacle through a sieve. "What has Longbottom excelled himself into this time?" 

"Don't know, Professor," mutters pure-Gryffindor Finnigan and backs away from the frothing potion. 

I move forward and glare at the pale liquid, white froth almost disguising its innocent pink colour. What did I say? Longbottom makes stupidity an art form. Give him the right ingredients, if not in the right amounts, and he will manage to make some kind of brew which follows an entirely different method, sharing only the ingredients. Slowly, I stir the thin pink liquid with a ladle. It is not hard to identify, however rare it is. Its description is infamous. 

This definitely calls for an explanation from Longbottom. In some ways, this potion's brewing is more of a crime than that of Veriox. 

Berrindock's Potion. Invented by a wizard appropriately named, Berrindock. I feel my glower deepen. How am I supposed to rid the school of this? It's highly illegal and to throw it away would be a severe breach of the law... Damn Longbottom. 

"Longbottom, you will stay behind from class," I snap. "For the rest of the lesson, you will sit here, and don't touch a thing, understand? Finnigan, go and join another group. Nobody is to touch this cauldron or its contents, understand me?" 

Everybody nods mutely. 

I turn and go back to brooding behind my desk. Berrindock's Potion... Not lethal, but dangerous in an entirely different way. 

I tell every first year group on their first lesson that I can teach them to bottle frame, brew glory, put a stopper on death and the rest. I could, too. 

If most of it wasn't illegal or watched minutely by the Ministry.  

Berrindock's Potion is an entirely different kettle of fish. 

A love potion, of sorts, but with the one difference being that it invokes _honest feelings, if you please, in its victims. Honest in the way that it stirs up emotions within the user - that have always been within the user - but never realised. It works on the basis that every human being, deep down loves every other human being. _

I wonder how it would affect the Dark Lord, in that respect. 

What I mean is, that it does not create a feeling of lust, but merely awakens one. I would refuse to believe it, but the ingredients are so unbelievable for a love potion... and it still works. It is illegal because honest love is a dangerous emotion, far more dangerous than plain anger or hatred, especially for politicians and alike. For a brief example, what would happen if Fudge fell deeply and madly in love with Dumbledore? Or the Dark Lord? The strongest love potion wears off within a month, and all love potions have an antidote and their administration can be proved. All except Berrindock's Potion. The only antidote is to find an antidote to oneself (which is truly impossible), and there are no tell tale signs of it being taken.  It cannot be destroyed easily, and it is not allowed to be thrown away - if it gets into a water supply, it would not be diluted in strength, just multiplied in size. I will have to talk to Dumbledore about it. And try and persuade him to ban Longbottom from any further Potions practical lessons.  Again. 

A quick glance at the clock beside me tells me that the lesson hour is up. Last lesson of the day, and thank all the gods for that; the headache promised by this lesson has long since arrived and is demanding attention via a headache cure. 

But first, Longbottom.  

Potions marked, homework given, cauldrons emptied of their contents, class is dismissed, backs packed and the students finally leave, muttering their groundless, petty threats as they send me the hateful glares that I have so studiously ignored for most of my life. All that is left is Longbottom, standing in front of me, head hanging miserably.  He is sixteen, for heavens sake, and he still behaves like the most shy of the first years! Why? 

I fix him with a glare. Nothing too threatening. 

"Longbottom," I start. I can almost see him trembling. He is truly pathetic. "Do you know what potion you have managed to brew during the course of the lesson?"

His eyes widen slightly at my words. "No, Professor," he mumbles. 

"Berrindock's Potion. I don't expect you to know what it is. I will just tell you that it is highly illegal, and brewing it can earn a long stretch in Azkaban, at the very least," I conclude. I watch the round face in front of me thoughtfully as I exaggerate the punishments. He says nothing, but his lower lip trembles, threatening tears. 

"Fortunately for you," I continue, "you are a student, and should be excused for such a blunder. Nevertheless, Professor Dumbledore will be informed."

"Yes, Professor," he squeaks. He looks acutely terrified of me. 

Am I such a monster? 

Yes. 

And have worked so hard to remain so, despite Dumbledore's best efforts. 

I do not wish to be favoured, or shown affection I am not worthy of. 

I have no desire to be looked up to; indeed, if I found that someone did look up to me, I would go to lengths to abolish such silliness. I am no-one's idol, no-one's favourite, and don't deserve to be. So instead, I work for terror from my students. They fear me, so they work, instead of facing my wrath. It is a system that works, I suppose, though I would not be the last to say that it is not the best way. 

Back to Longbottom. 

"There will be no punishment."

Longbottom looks as amazed at my words as I am. Where did that come from? All these martyr's words of mine and then unexpected words of dismissal? 

Today was not a good day. 

"No punishment for now, that is. As I said, I shall have to take up the matter with the Head Master first," I say sharply, fighting to recover myself. 

He nods and looks vaguely relieved. 

"You may go," I say, urging the stupid child to flee from the room as the rest had. 

"Yes, Professor," he mumbles again, and walks hurriedly - almost runs - towards the exit, tripping on the hem of his robes in his haste. He reaches the door and with one feverish glance back at me, he hurries away, to join his friends.   

I am left alone again. The cold than penetrates the room means nothing to me. It's the cold that penetrates my life that hurts. 

The room is quiet now, at last. I gather the essays of the last lesson together under one arm, along with some other pieces of parchment that appear to have strayed into the classroom, instead of my office. I leave, locking the dreary classroom behind me for the day and retire to my own, more comfortable chambers. I enter, murmuring counter curses as I go, and go through my office to the smaller room behind that serves as a living room and bedroom.  Leaving the papers on the low coffee table next to the lit fire, I fetch a prepared headache cure, and take a large draught for my pounding head. 

I live in reasonable comfort here at Hogwarts. Albus provides for all I need, which isn't much in retrospect. The quiet peace of the dungeons is all I could wish for, readily punctuated by meals and a bed to sleep in. 

My youth was not a happy one. 

When I was at Hogwarts, I was teased and tortured mercilessly, marked out as different, even among the Slytherins, my own house. Not to say I didn't have friends, of a sort. Rosier, Wilkes and Lestrange, mainly. Not true friends. No, definitely not true friends, but useful enough in their way, if only they had the intelligence to know it.  When I left Hogwarts, I joined Voldemort and his Death Eaters. 

Possibly not the most intelligent thing I've ever done. 

Before the Dark Lord fell, I turned spy and have been paying the endless price ever since. Being despised by both sides now, not just one, not being safe where ever I turn. I dare not venture out of Hogsmede, and even then, I only go down to the village when need be. On occasion I am forced to visit Diagon Alley. I dread those occasions. I get the dirty looks and hateful glares from all of them, just like I get it from the students. Not that I'm really complaining.

I deserve it. 

The fire flickers casting shadows throughout the darkened room; I didn't bother to light the touches. Sometimes the dark helps. Sometimes it doesn't. I know I should be up in Dumbledore's office right now, explaining Longbottom's blunder, not sitting here staring into nothing. Even through the thick walls of solid stone, I can see the cauldron in the classroom, bubbling innocently as though it was nothing more important than another mistake, not an illegal substance. It's as though it has eyes. As though it's staring straight at me, like the rest. 

I should be talking to Dumbledore. 

I really, really can't be arsed. 

I know that if the potion is discovered there that I will be blamed for brewing it. 

And I still don't care. 

Apathy is good for something then, obviously. Instead of letting you worry and become confused, it weighs you down like a lead balloon, letting you see things clearly. And then allowing you not to give a damn. 

Apathy is a wonderful thing. 

I sigh and lean back in my chair, the fire warming my body, my mind oblivious to its effect. I let my mind wander as well as my eyes, watching the flickering flames, the only light source in the room. It's soothing, in a way. I sit here for hours at a time, just watching the flames. Lucius told me once that fire was cleansing, purifying. I seem to recall that I gave him my standard response of "Is that so?" bland and uninterested.  I begin to see now, though, exactly what he meant. It destroys the old, and from the ashes, new life can form. Ash is extremely fertile, after all. It's so easy just to sit here and watch the endless patterns consume the crackling wood. One need not think, nor believe that the rest of the world truly exists.

Sighing, I close my eyes and lean my head back on the chair. 

Still the potion's insufferable presence makes itself known to me. Dumbledore's office is so far away though… Its not that I'm lazy, merely tired. And apathetic. Besides, Dumbledore will want explanations, arguments, a way of disposing the vile stuff…  And that invariably results in my having to stay up for most of the night, researching. That's all very well, for a weekend. 

As it is, I have to teach tomorrow, and find myself repulsed by the idea of moving only to banish sleep from my agenda. 

Sleep, I have learnt, is something to be cherished. Believe me, after being terrified from it by nightmares, normal, natural dreamless sleep is possibly the highest point of my day. Or night. 

Which, I know, says little for my social life, but then, what social life? I have no friends, save Minerva who tolerates me barely. I am a loner, and always have been. That in itself is all very well, but few people seem to be able to comprehend the idea of my wishing for isolation. Fools. 

A log gives way on the fire and falls out onto the grate, bringing me unwillingly out of my stupor. Unthinkingly, I bend down and throw it back onto the fire, and then curse my lack of common sense and newly burnt fingers. 

Damned fire. 

Moving over to the potions cabinet I keep in my office, I scour it for something to sooth the burning that fills my fingers, whilst keeping my hand trapped in the pit of my arm in sheer pain. 

Idiocy catches us all, eventually. 

Ah, there! Spotting the required potion at last I take it from the shelf and apply it carefully, savouring the coolness it brings. 

Making a mental note never, ever to do that again, I replace the jar, my digits returning to their thankfully original state. At times, it pays to be a Potions Master.

I go to return to my favoured place by the fire, but for some reason, it is not so appealing now. The wretched potion is still leering at me, and I suspect it will continue to do so until I do something about it… 

Thus, I resolve to go to waste my night, destroy any hope of sleep and work myself to death by going to Dumbledore. 

It's times like these that I feel my hatred of Longbottom is fully justified. 

So off I go, walking all that long way up to Dumbledore's office. That is the main draw back for living in the dungeons. I seem to spend most of my life ascending or descending a flight of stairs. It is a wearisome pastime. 

But, eventually, I get there, and find myself knocking on Dumbledore's Griffin knocker. I always hated that knocker. Gryffindor, the "Golden Griffin," –'Or' being the word for gold in French. Slytherin, slithering. Like a snake. 

I really must stop myself distracting my thoughts like this. It really will not do. 

"Enter."

At last. I wonder what took him so long? I shrug momentarily and enter the circular tower room, to be greeted with the unchanging vision of Albus Dumbledore. Same half-moon glasses, same impossibly long beard, same twinkling blue eyes.   It is vaguely reassuring, in a way, to know that without something radical happening, Dumbledore will never change. Until he dies of course, when he will doubtless change rather a lot. Decay and maggots have that effect, I find. 

Enough. 

"Ah, Severus! An unexpected pleasure, I must say... do take a seat."

It never ceases to amaze me how delighted he manages to sound on these occasions. Naturally, it must be a show, a façade on his part to keep me happy, but amazing none the less. 

I sit in the chair he waved me into, my face, as ever, bearing no emotion. I say nothing as yet – as yet, I have nothing to say. I am here to discuss Longbottom's imbecility, not to make small talk. 

Dumbledore knows this, after long experience of talking to me, and cuts the chitchat he usually indulges in. 

"What brings you up here, Severus?"

My cue. 

"Nothing particularly new, Albus," I inform him dryly. "Although this time, it is rather important. Longbottom." I stop here, waiting for some kind of protest from my superior. Getting none, I proceed. "He has managed to brew a highly illegal substance in my lesson, one that I cannot legally get rid of." 

Dumbledore inhales slowly between his teeth, a hiss of sorts, but a thoughtful one, rather than a hiss of anger. I notice the door of the black cabinet is ajar, Dumbledore's pensieve hastily replaced, the dust disturbed around it. That, then, answers why he took so long in answering me. 

"What has he done this time, Severus?"

He sounds old tonight, tired. Again, I catch myself wondering how old he truly is, before answering, "Berrindock's Potion. You know of it?" Of course he does. Albus has a reasonable grounding on potions, one of the things that make him tolerable in his unreasonably genial manner. 

He stares for a moment and then nods, closing his eyes and frowning. "How on earth…?"

"I'm not entirely sure. All the ingredients are the same, bar two. But the amounts are nothing like those used for what he should have been making." Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy. This is calling for research already. Damned child!

"Did you not notice what he was doing, Severus?"

Research and reprimanding. I hate it when Dumbledore gets like this…

"No, Albus, I didn't." Maybe that was a bit harsh. I should soften it, I suppose… "I was dealing with some of the others."

"The Slytherins, you mean, Severus."

"Perhaps." Arrogance. Dumbledore is indeed a Gryffindor, right down to the curly points of his shoes and his Griffin doorknocker. 

"Did he not alert you to the fact that he was going wrong?" Albus is looking particularly harassed tonight. I would say I sympathise, but I don't. Empathise, maybe. 

"He never does, Albus, I've told you all this before." And I have, too. Longbottom is scared of me. Thus, he will not ask questions, which is most certainly a mixed blessing. It does mean that I don't get cornered and bombarded with simplistic queries, but it also means that I do get showered with mistakes and illegal potions. 

"He's scared of you, Severus, what can you expect?"

"I expect a little more backbone from Gryffindors," I answered dryly, earning myself a sharp look from Dumbledore. 

"And you go on about stereotyping…" he says disapprovingly, although, if I'm not very much mistaken, I can see the twinkling humour he is famed for in his eye. 

I shrug. 

"But seriously now, Severus," he continues, his tone reflecting his words. "I really do believe that if you were a bit… _nicer_ to him, his work would improve. He is scared, so he makes foolish mistakes."

I am afraid to say that I stare at Dumbledore in disbelief at this point. 

If I were a bit nicer?! If I were a bit nicer I wouldn't have become a Death Eater and killed countless numbers of Muggles and Mudbloods! If I were nicer, I wouldn't have my name habitually cursed every time it's uttered! If I were a little nicer, I wouldn't have become universally known as "Snape, that git"!

"… I'm not a nice person," is all I manage to say to that. 

I get a stern look, followed by stern words. 

"Don't give me that, Severus."

"Give you what, Albus, the truth? I do not suffer fools gladly, and I find the boy an unendurable idiot!" 

Easy on the exclamation marks, Severus, I have to warn myself. I can see what's coming next. If you believe yourself to be…

"If you believe yourself to be a nice person, Severus…" he starts and leaves it there, knowing as well as I do that he's told me all this before and he isn't going to change my attitude. 

"Therein lies the problem, Albus. I do not believe myself to be a nice person. It comes of killing people, I'm afraid," I reply sourly. Hell, he should be glad I haven't taken Longbottom's head off his rounded shoulders yet. 

Although I'm getting closer to considering it. 

"Quite frankly, I don't care at the moment. I'm more concerned about the potion than I am about the fool managed to brew." 

"The fool, Severus?" he asks me, archly. 

I give an exaggerated sigh to show my disapproval of Albus's games. "Longbottom, then."

"Who?"

I stare at him again, giving him a strange look. Who? Is he suffering amnesia or something…? No, this was Albus Dumbledore. Trying to make me say 'Neville'. My childish reverse psychology kicks in. 

"Yes. Longbottom. Son of Frank Longbottom. Amazingly even more of an imbecile than Frank Longbottom. Longbottom, the possessor of possibly the most unfortunate name in attendance at Hogwarts at this moment in time."

"Excluding Iva Hernia." We both wince at Albus's words. Fortunately, he chooses to move off the subject of the ill-fated child. 

"What is his *first* name, Severus?" he asks me, in an almost singsong voice. 

I glower. I refuse to play these games.  

"Iva," I answer, playing dumb purposefully. 

Dumbledore gives me a suitably disparaging look. "_Longbottom's _first name, Severus." 

"Frank," I say, sullenly. "Don't play games with me, Albus." 

"Then don't be so obnoxious, Severus." 

… Ouch… Strange, I never really thought that Dumbledore would ever actually say that. I know he thinks that regularly. I'm not a fool, and definitely not a blind fool. And that leads me back to Longbottom again…

"How do you expect me to do that?" I reply coolly. "Just suddenly… change? You want that I should dye my hair blond, paint my nails and smile coyly at male students?!" I fear I sound a little hysterical... but still. To ask me to become nice is like asking Voldemort to take up ballet. Inherently pointless, and insulting. 

And you'd never get either of us in a tutu. No, don't even think about it…

"Don't be foolish, Severus," Dumbledore says, sounding remarkably like Minerva. I suddenly have this urge to look in his Pensieve… I always did wonder about those two. 

Under attack of many not–so-pretty mental images by this time, I respond, "I'm not. I'm merely pointing out that I am not designed to be nice."

Dumbledore sighs. "Do you want to get rid of this potion?"

"Yes, of course I do." Why else does he think I'm here? For fun? But he rarely asks pointless questions. I have a horrible feeling he's about to 'strike a deal'.  

"I'll do you a deal." 

I'm beginning to think I would make a better clairvoyant than Sybil… though that's not saying much. 

"I'll dispose of the potion – I have connections in the Disposal Department in the Ministry – on the grounds that you try and be nicer to Neville."

What does one say to that? Personally, I say nothing. I scowl. I glare. I don't like it one bit. 

But what choice do I have, really? 

"That's blackmail," I grate out at last. 

"Such a horrible word, Severus," he answers, neither denying nor confirming this. Who said that Dumbledore was just another harmless delinquent?

"Fine," I snap and stand. "The potion is in the classrooms. Have it removed by tomorrow and I will be… more tolerant of Longbottom."

"More tolerant?"

"Yes. More tolerant." What does he want of me?!

"Not good enough, Severus… I want you to be _nice_ to him…"

"Fine. I will be," insert sarcasm here "_nice_ to Longbottom." Evil, evil Dumbledore. Evil. 

"Glad to hear it," he says and smiles his irritating genial smile. The genial smile that is always answered with a murderous scowl. 

Today is no different, in that respect. 

To hear him talk anyone would think I've agreed to the damned idea… suggested it, even. Bastard. I turn and leave without speaking, my black robes billowing out behind me in the most imposing way robes can manage. Which is fairly imposing. 

And yet, I can still see him smiling that amused smile behind my back. 

Git. 

With nothing left for me on the upper floors of the castle, I retreat back down to my beloved dungeons and crawl into bed, hoping that maybe when I wake up, today will have been nothing more than a bad dream.


End file.
